


The Washerwoman

by darkrosaleen



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dark, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:36:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easier to die than to mourn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Washerwoman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ania/gifts).



The Henrietta Laundromat was always dead at night. Ronan was slumped in a plastic chair playing with his phone when the door chimed. An old woman shuffled inside, dragging a dark sack on the ground behind her. She was about four feet tall, with a deeply hunched back and skin like saggy leather. She looked old enough to have dry humped Robert E. Lee.

The woman inched her way over to Ronan's chair. She had no teeth, and she smelled like awful flowery perfume. Ronan tried not to gag.

"Can you spare a quarter, young man?" Her Henrietta accent was thick like honey.

"Fuck off, Granny." 

The woman laughed, a low, groaning sound that made the hair on Ronan's neck stand up. "Suit yourself, boy."

She continued her slow shuffle to the back of the laundromat. Eventually, Ronan heard the sink running. The woman was singing to herself, something old and vaguely familiar.

Ronan's dryer buzzed. He picked up his duffel bag from the floor and started unloading his clothes. The old woman stood a few feet away, scrubbing a dark sweater with clawed hands. Ronan spotted a raven crest.

"Trust me, it'll take more than soap to get those stains out. Tell your great-great-grandson to take his uniform off before he plays with himself."

The woman reached into her sack and pulled out a pair of khakis covered in blood.

Ronan noticed two things. First, judging by the color and smell, the bloodstains were at least three days old.

Second, a few hours ago, Gansey had been wearing those khakis.

Ronan's phone clattered to the floor. The air felt thick, like the end of a nightmare when something started chasing you and you couldn't run. Ronan tasted blood and rot in the back of his throat.

"You're—no, fuck no." He felt like he was choking. This wasn't real. It was a nightmare, a scary story his father used to tell him—the fairy woman at the river, washing the clothes of people who were about to die. 

Ronan didn't believe in fairies.

He hadn't believed in nightmares, either. 

The woman laughed, her toothless grin as menacing as a skull. "Such a shame. Always the pretty ones who die young."

Ronan ran.

He made it halfway down the block before he fell to his knees and vomited. He kept going after there was nothing left to purge, as if his body was trying to force out the knot in his gut. His arms shook and he gasped for breath.

In, out. Gansey had to remind him to breathe sometimes, like when he woke up from a nightmare covered in his father's blood. Ronan had slept in Gansey's bed for a week after the funeral. He had a sudden, vivid sense-memory of waking up with his face pressed against Gansey's back, of the smell and the warmth and the soft noises Gansey made in his sleep. It felt more real than the ground under him.

Blood. So much blood. Ronan felt dizzy from too much oxygen. He dragged his knuckles back and forth against the cement, letting the sting clear his mind.

Who would make him breathe if Gansey was gone?

Ronan didn't know how long he crouched on the sidewalk, but when he stood up, his knuckles were bleeding and there was dried vomit on his shirt. Next to the drugstore, there was a payphone that miraculously still worked, and Ronan counted out each ring with the frenzied beating of his heart. 

"Hello? Who is this?" Gansey sounded groggy and mildly perturbed, and relief flooded through Ronan so strongly that he almost cried out.

"Gansey," he choked. He didn't know what to say, and if he did, he wouldn't have been able to say it. 

"Ronan? I've been texting you, where's your phone? Do you need to be picked up? I'll pick you up, just stay wherever you are." 

"No!" Ronan heard him stop moving. For a moment, there was nothing but rapid breathing on either end of the line. "I'm fine, just. Just stay where you are. Are you dressed for bed?"

"As if that would stop me." Gansey chuckled. "Are you asking what I'm wearing, Ronan Lynch?"

Ronan kicked the side of the phone box. "Just promise me you won't get dressed again, okay? Stay there, I'm coming home."

"Right now, I'm wearing boxer briefs and a t-shirt to a gym I've never been to. I think it's yours."

Something washed over Ronan, something warm and sharp and alive. He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes.

If Gansey died, so would Ronan. He'd make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea haunting me, and you gave me the perfect excuse to write it. I hope you like it! Thanks to Isis for the beta.


End file.
